And then the folder and the forgery and my mother’s retreating back all stopped mattering, because there was something far more important happening at the level of the floor.

I lowered myself down to eye level with my sons.

Mason was staring at his shoes.

Lucas still had one hand wrapped around the handle of the blue suitcase, the way he had held it in his sleep.

They were both watching me with a wariness no five-year-old should have had to learn, and I understood that whatever I did in the next minute, they would carry.

“Are you really our dad?” Mason asked.